


Anniversary

by akamine_chan



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2011-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 20:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray wasn't dumb, no matter what people thought.</p><p>Ray had been drinking for a while, waiting for just the right circumstances to put his plan into motion.</p><p>He chose the toughest bar in town, which happened to be Cooney's Liquors, and he picked the biggest, meanest, drunkest guy in Cooney's to start a fight with.  That guy, and four of his best friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> Stars beta'd this story over a year ago and I was feeling burnt out enough to not want to work on it. But she did a hell of a job with this story. Andeincascade gave it another final look over, so thanks to both of you for your help.

Ray wasn't dumb, no matter what people thought.

Ray had been drinking for a while, waiting for just the right circumstances to put his plan into motion.

He chose the toughest bar in town, which happened to be Cooney's Liquors, and he picked the biggest, meanest, drunkest guy in Cooney's to start a fight with. That guy, and four of his best friends.

Cooney's was where the pipeline's blue-collar labor went, the roustabouts and the worms, roughnecks and rig hands. Big men, tall and broad, hard-working and hard-drinking.

Next to them, Ray looked like the scrawny, underfed runt of the litter. That was okay, though, because Ray had been the underdog since the first time that he and his older brother had fought over the same toy. He'd spent a lifetime being the dark horse, the long shot, and he was damn good at it.

* * *

Stella had been way out of his league. His friends had told him so, his family had warned him and in his heart he knew that he hadn't been good enough for her. His beautiful Gold Coast girl. That didn't stop him from trying to be the best husband he could be, loving her so much and praying he could keep her happy. He'd beaten the odds for close to fifteen years. It had worked until it hadn't anymore and then he'd let her go, reluctantly.

With Fraser, it was different. Fraser was sharp as a razor and so fucking handsome, like a movie star. Ray'd thought for sure he was going to feel outclassed; he _did_ feel that way, sometimes. It turned out, though, that Fraser's total lack of experience when it came to interpersonal relationships offset some of that. So sometimes Ray actually felt like he knew what he was doing; life with Stella had taught him a lot.

He really _wasn't_ dumb; he'd learned a lot from being married, from being in a committed relationship. What to do, what not to do, when to dig his heels in and stand his ground, when to compromise.

Unlike Fraser, who had very little experience with relationships, let alone long-term ones. He held grudges, and tended to hold everything in until it exploded in a mess of hurt feelings and misunderstandings.

Fraser sometimes struggled to talk to Ray, and had a hard time telling Ray what he wanted, what he needed, in bed and out.

It pissed Ray off sometimes, and so he pushed, and pushed.

He'd just never expected Fraser to push back.

* * *

It wasn't hard to get the roughneck to throw the first punch. Ray had a smart mouth and a bad attitude and that particular combination had gotten him into a lot of trouble over the years. Ray bounced lightly on his feet, centering himself, and he brought his hands up to protect his face, like he'd been trained to do. He lifted his chin and wiggled his fingers, taunting the roughneck with the universal sign for "come and get me" and his punch-now-ask-questions-later grin. This was going to hurt, because there was no way he wasn't going to get his ass kicked, hard. Five of them, one of him; he might be wearing his steel-toed head-kicking boots, but they had overwhelming numbers and mass on their side.

But Ray needed to hurt on the outside as much as he hurt on the inside and this was the easiest, fastest way to get there.

The roughneck didn't hesitate, telegraphing a slow punch with a gigantic, beefy fist. Ray had no problems ducking that one, nor the one after it. He could have kept dodging all night, but the roustabout's friends joined the fray and Ray found himself surrounded.

The first blow split his lip and made his ears ring, but he shook it off and grinned. He could take more than that. A lot more. His whole life had been about taking a beating and asking for more.

Eventually, the bartender called the cops and Ray found himself hauled off by one of Fraser's Mountie subordinates. Ray knew him, vaguely, and could tell that Constable Barry recognized him as Fraser's _partner_ by the glare. He escorted Ray to the detachment and handed him over Sergeant Abraham Okpik, the detachment's second-in-command.

Abe Okpik was originally from the small hamlet of Paulatuk, up near Inuvik, and even though he and Ray had very little in common, being on opposite ends of the personality spectrum, they'd struck up a fast friendship. Abe had taught Ray how to curl, and Ray taught Abe how to play chess.

"Ray?" Abe's deep voice was incredulous. "What happened? Should I call Benton?" He tried to get Ray to sit down, but Ray wouldn't have any of it.

"I'm okay, Abe. Just put me in the drunk tank for the night and I'll be fine." Ray's knew he looked a sight: broken nose, cut lip, a black eye (possibly two), knuckles scraped raw, and reeking of alcohol. His shirt was torn and blood-stained. It was entirely possible that he looked like he'd been in a bar fight and lost.

"Put you in the—Ray, what in the world is going on? Have you been drinking?"

He attempted his usual cocky grin, but only succeeded in reopening the cut on his lip. "Ow.” He staunched the blood with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Fight at Cooney's."

"Cooney's?" Abe picked up the phone. "That's it. I'm calling Benton. I don't know what's gotten into you, but—"

"Abe, just put me in the fucking tank for the night. You can call Fraser in the morning and have him bail me out then." His voice was sharp, and Ray knew he was being an asshole, but he didn't feel all that steady on his feet and his head was pounding. He was a little afraid he was going to fall over, and if he did, nothing would stop Abe from calling Fraser and the hospital. He just wasn't ready to deal with that yet.

Abe looked him over, brown eyes concerned. Ray stood up a little straighter, wincing.

"Okay, Ray." Abe carefully touched Ray's elbow and guided him to the cell that served as the detachment's drunk tank. Thankfully, it was empty tonight, so Ray had the barren 10 foot by 10 foot cell to himself. Abe slid the door shut behind Ray, and locked it with his old-fashioned ring of keys. "You need anything? Coffee?" He still looked worried; it made Ray feel like such a bastard.

"'M'fine." He carefully laid down on the cot, clutching at his side, abruptly crashing from his adrenaline high and painfully conscious of every punch he'd taken. Ray took a deep, slow breath and held it, feeling the agony arc through his ribs. Fuck. He might have cracked a rib or two. Not good, but it satisfied the driving need to feel nothing but the pain.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the pain, feeling it throb in time with his heartbeat. He let the pain wash over him in waves, trying not to fight it, letting it drive out the memories circling endlessly in his head. He needed to stop seeing Dief running through the snow, tail held high, wolfy grin on his face. For a moment, he managed to forget about the grief in his heart and he slid into a state halfway between sleep and unconsciousness.

* * *

"Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray—"

Ray wasn't sure how long Fraser had been repeating his name, but it finally penetrated into his foggy half-sleep. He tried to open his eyes; one was swollen shut but the other managed to blearily focus on Fraser's concerned face.

Fraser brushed back his hair, something perilously close to tenderness in his eyes as he looked down at Ray, sprawled in a rickety cot in the drunk tank in a town they'd never heard of until they'd moved there.

"Let's go home, Ray."

Ray could only nod, wanting the comfort of their cabin, their home so badly that his one good eye teared up. "'kay," he mumbled, letting Fraser carefully lever him out of the cot, hissing as the movement woke a sharp pain in his side.

He was hung over, but worse, he felt like he'd had the shit kicked out of him. His brain presented him with flashes of his roustabout opponent and his four larger friends and he winced at his own monumental stupidity. “That was dumb, Ray,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

The pointed look Fraser gave him was not a reassuring one. It was the look that said Ray was in the dog house, likely to be there for a long while unless he could come up with a damn convincing apology. For Stella, it was always daisies, fancy Swiss chocolates and cashmere sweaters. With Fraser, most times pemmican, fresh oranges or blowjobs would do the trick. Ray could live with that.

Fraser carefully helped Ray into the Jeep and drove them home at his usual sedate pace, scanning the empty streets for signs of trouble. (Ray wanted to laugh, because you could take the Mountie out of the city, but you couldn't take the city out of the Mountie. Fraser probably didn't even realize that he'd picked up some inner-city police habits, but Ray was not going to make an issue out of it. The more careful Fraser was, the more likely he was to make it home, and that was the one thing in life Ray needed: for Fraser to be home, safe and sound, every single night.)

He leaned his head against the back of the seat, trying to block out the weak rays of winter sunlight, ignoring the way his head throbbed and his stomach gurgled. Suddenly, his stomach heaved threateningly. "Fraser—"

Without a word, Fraser pulled over to the side of the road. Ray opened the door and leaned out, vomiting what little was left in his stomach. He spat, trying to get rid of the awful taste in his mouth as Fraser gently rubbed his back.

"Here." Fraser handed him a bottle of water from the stash he kept in the Jeep.

Ray didn't want Fraser to be nice to him. He needed Fraser to be angry and pissed, so Ray could hold on to all of the negative emotions that were threatening to disappear under Fraser's tenderness and care.

He took a mouthful of water, swishing it around, glad to get the bitter taste out of his mouth. He could feel Fraser's hand, warm on his back, but instead of soothing him, it just made him feel more raw and wounded. He sat there as the Jeep idled, looking out at the snowy landscape that was now more familiar than the urban sprawl of Chicago, and he wondered how he'd gotten to this point in his life.

"Ray—" Fraser's voice was still concerned, worried.

Nodding tiredly, he slid back into the seat and pulled the door shut. "Home."

The rest of the drive was silent except for the soothing rumble of the engine and the hiss of the tires on the road. Every breath still hurt, and the pounding in his head was worse, but the quiet pulled him down into an uneasy drowse. He felt the light touch of Fraser's hand on the back of his neck; Fraser needing reassurance that as upset as Ray was, they weren't over.

Fraser pulled into the gravel driveway and stopped, setting the emergency brake. Their house, painted bright yellow, glowed in the slanting light: home. Before they'd moved here, home was where ever the RCMP assigned Fraser; places like Dawson City, Tulita, and Watson Lake, settling into temporary living spaces for the space of six months or a year. But they'd chosen MacKenzie Point together. Fraser had kept his eyes open for a vacancy at the detachment, and when Staff Sergeant Malone had retired, Fraser had applied and the RCMP had rubber-stamped their approval.

They'd found a home, a fixer-upper that Ray spent his spare time working on. He'd redone the bathroom, requiring not only a shower, but a decadent claw-footed bathtub that they both fit into; he'd torn out the ugly carpeting and installed hardwood floors with wood purchased from an old bowling alley.

While Ray worked on the structure of their house, Fraser worked on the furnishings. He'd refinished the kitchen cabinets, sanding and staining them a warm honey color, like reflected firelight. He built bookshelves and a table, and his pièce de résistance, a bed. It was big and sturdy; no matter how many times Ray and Fraser vigorously tested it, it had never squeaked.

Home. Bought and paid for with their money, their sweat and time and effort. And some of their blood, over the years.

"Where's the pup?" Ray tried to be nonchalant, but the worried glance Fraser gave him made it clear that he wasn't fooling anyone.

"Outside in the dog run. She's too young to be left inside unattended, but I thought she'd be fine out in the yard for right now."

"Ah." That non-committal single word reply was Fraser's greatest stalling technique, and Ray had never felt more justified in stealing that particular conversational gambit.

"I'm gonna get a shower, wash some of the blood and dirt off." He started to trudge off to the bathroom, feeling the ache of a long night on an uncomfortable cot, in addition to the pain from his cuts and bruises, his ribs and his nose. He wasn't young, and his body wasn't used to taking this kind of beating anymore.

"May I help?"

The words were oddly formal, and the look on Fraser's face was sort of blank. But Ray knew Fraser; they'd been together long enough that Ray knew the man behind the Mountie-mask. Fraser was scared, terrified Ray was going to walk away, even though Fraser thought he'd done the right thing. That was Fraser—doing the right thing even if it meant tearing his own heart out. _Maintiens le droit_ wasn't only the motto of the RCMP, it was Fraser's personal motto, too.

Ray thought about his ribs, most likely cracked, and the rest of his injuries. It would be difficult to wash by himself. "Yeah, Fraser, you can help, if you want." He laid the words out between them, with apparent carelessness, giving Fraser an out if he wanted one.

Turning away, Ray limped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, turning the knob as far as it would go on the "hot" side, breathing deeply as the room steamed up. He started to unbutton his flannel shirt, struggling with the tiny buttons, wincing as sore muscles pulled and tightened. "Fuckin' ow," he muttered, feeling sorry for himself.

"Here, let me do that."

Ray dropped his arms and let Fraser work on the buttons. It only took a moment, and Fraser made it look simple. Fraser pushed the shirt off of his shoulders and down his arms, helping Ray untangle himself from the sleeves. He made a sad little sound as he gently touched the huge greenish-blue bruise on Ray's side above his kidney, and the bloody scrape across his chest.

Fraser reached down and unbuckled Ray's belt, then undid his jeans, letting them slide down Ray's legs to puddle in a messy pile on the floor. His underwear soon followed, and Ray stepped out of them and kicked them half-heartedly toward the laundry hamper, ignoring Fraser's disapproving sigh. He'd pick them up later, when he wasn't sore and tired and hung-over. Hell, it was his turn to do the laundry anyway.

He climbed into the tub and stepped under the spray of hot water, closing his eyes and groaning in pained relief as the heat penetrated his sore muscles and started to loosen them up. Fraser stepped in behind him and pulled the curtain shut, and took a moment to carefully wrap his arms around Ray and hug him, gently, shifting his weight and silently encouraging Ray to relax back into Fraser's strength.

Which Ray did. Ray loved how strong and solid Fraser was, loved how safe and protected he sometimes made Ray feel. Ray was a big boy, he could take care of himself in spite of getting his ass kicked in last night's scuffle, but he really appreciated the fact that Fraser was there for him to lean on, if he needed to. It was a nice feeling, one that he'd gotten used to. Fraser watched his back, and he watched Fraser's. Buddies.

At least, Fraser had always watched Ray's back until yesterday. That was when Ray had come home, stood in the kitchen and been attacked by a puppy, which playfully chewed on his boot laces. That hadn't been buddies at all.

Fraser let go of Ray and reached for the soap, lathering up the washcloth and rubbing at Ray's back, avoiding the obvious bruises and sore spots, but managing to wash the cuts and scrapes. It stung, but it was a good kind of pain. Ray moaned a little, enjoying the physical attention that Fraser was lavishing on him.

He could hear Fraser muttering as he washed Ray, lingering on the damaged bits and cleaning them, trying not to cause more pain. For the most part, he succeeded. Every once in a while, Ray would wince and hiss as Fraser hit an exceptionally tender place, but for the most part it felt good and Ray found himself close to purring like a cat.

Eventually, he was a clean as he was going to get. Fraser washed his hair, added conditioner and while Ray stood and let it soak into his hair, he washed himself quickly and efficiently.

Fraser pulled the shower head off of its hanger and rinsed the conditioner out of Ray's hair, working his fingers gently against Ray's scalp. Ray loved having his head massaged; he always melted at the gentle scritch of Fraser's nails, the careful way Fraser would thread his fingers through Ray's upright spikes and tug lightly.

Rinsing himself off perfunctorily, Fraser nudged Ray out of the way so he could reach the towels. He dried himself off, then turned and blotted the water off of Ray, being careful with the bruised and banged-up areas. With a gentle touch to Ray's elbow, Fraser sat Ray down on the closed lid of the toilet and started to rummage in the cabinets for their first aid kit, which was a unholy combination of over-the-counter medicines and homemade salves and unguents.

(Fraser would sometimes tease Ray by pretending to name mythical or exotic animals as the ingredients of his concoctions: a dragon hide and dried kraken powder that was good for burns, or a chupacabra and sea pickle lotion that soothed sore muscles. Sometimes Ray had a hard time telling if Fraser was making things up or not. Fraser had a good poker face when he set his mind to it.)

Ray closed his eyes and let Fraser tend to his wounds. He was sure that Fraser wouldn't admit it, because that would mean that he took a little bit of pleasure in Ray's pain, but Ray was sure that Fraser enjoyed taking care of Ray when he was hurt like this. Applying antibiotics and butterfly bandages to the cuts, rubbing something astringently herbal on the bruises, examining bones to make sure they were in their proper places. Fraser kept up a running commentary about how dangerous even the smallest cut could be, if it was exposed to some nasty bacteria or virus. Ray tuned him out, just drifting with the soothing, almost hypnotic rise and fall of Fraser's voice.

"Ray. Ray, Ray, Ray."

Ray shook himself awake and stood, sliding his arms into his dark flannel robe that Fraser held out for him. His mother had bought matching ones for the both of them last Christmas. Ray loved his— it was warm and soft and strangely comforting. He wrapped the tie around his waist and knotted it as Fraser put on his own robe.

"Let's get you into bed. You look exhausted."

"Yeah, I feel exhausted." His voice was rough and scratchy.

Ray let Fraser lead him into their bedroom. The bed was unmade, the covers tangled and messy. Looking at Fraser, Ray saw for the first time how tired _Fraser_ looked. It looked like Ray wasn't the only one who hadn't slept well last night. "How much sleep did you get?"

Fraser looked away. "Enough."

"Yeah, that's what I thought." He laid down carefully on the bed, and tugged on Fraser's sleeve. "You, too."

"Ray, I've got to—"

"Fraser, lie down with me. Please."

Fraser couldn't resist when Ray was being extra polite. He lay down on the other side of the bed, scooting close to Ray. Ray turned toward Fraser, peering at him with eyes partly swollen shut. Fraser stroked Ray's hair, fascinated, as he always was, by its lack of experimentalness after Ray showered.

They lay quietly for a while. Eventually, Ray had to ask the question that had been eating at him since he'd gotten home the day before and found a fluffy black and white puppy at his feet.

"Why? Why yesterday?"

"The puppies were ready to be weaned." Fraser looked at him, eyes shadowed. “It was time.”

That pissed Ray off all over again. "Bullshit. You knew what day it was, you knew I wasn't ready, but you couldn't stop pushing, pushing. _You_ decided it was time and you made a decision that effected both of us. A big, life-changing decision. I'm not ready—" He broke off, rubbing at the sting in his eyes.

"You've never had an easy time of letting go, Ray.” Fraser looked into Ray's eyes, his worry plain to see on his face. He cupped Ray's rough cheek in his hand. "What are you going to do if something ever happens to me?"

Ray closed his eyes and nuzzled into Fraser's palm.

"Ray—we need to talk about this, as painful as it might be. Law-enforcement is a dangerous profession, but I could just as easily get killed walking into town. I need to know that you aren't going to do anything foolish if something happens to me..." He stroked his thumb across Ray's cheekbone soothingly. "Ray..."

"I—" Ray stopped, clearing his throat. "I can't make any promises, Ben," he said, rough-voiced. "Don't ask me to make a promise I don't know if I can keep."

Fraser kept stroking Ray's cheek; Ray could see him forcing himself to accept that. Slowly, he nodded, and leaned forward to lay a soft kiss on Ray's mouth. "All right, Ray."

Ray concentrated on his breathing, fighting the wave of grief that threatened to swamp him.

"It's time for us to move on, to honor Dief's memory by sharing our lives with another companion. It's what he would have wanted."

Ray squeezed his eyes shut tightly, feeling his mouth turn down. "I miss him, Fraser," he whispered.

"I know you do." Fraser kissed the top of Ray's head. "I miss him, too." Fraser wrapped Ray in his arms and pulled him close, holding him carefully. "The new pup will never replace Dief in our hearts, but she'll make her own place in our lives."

"She?" Fraser's use of the pronoun suddenly penetrated his fogginess. Ray looked. "You got a girl-pup? A bitch-puppy?"

Fraser tried to glare. "Well, Ray, I actually chose the smartest, most social wolf-dog-pup of Sarah Tologanak's newest litter. Which turned out to be a female pup. She's very smart, and will be easier to train."

"And she's cute."

"Well, yes," Fraser admitted reluctantly. "Very cute."

"What are you going to name her?"

Fraser looked at him. "She's going to be _our_ dog, Ray. It seems appropriate that _we_ pick out her name, together." His face was serious, but his eyes, gently amused, gave him away. "There is a set of groundbreaking women called the Famous Five who were responsible for pushing Canada into taking great strides towards women's rights.”

“What were their names?” Ray could tell that Fraser had already given the pup's name some thought.

“Emily Murphy, Irene Parlby, Nellie McClung, Louise McKinney and Henriette Edwards.” The names rolled off of Fraser's tongue, heavy with history.

Ray just barely managed to refrain from rolling his eyes at Fraser. "Hmmm..." Ray tasted the names in his head, feeling their shape and sound. “Murphy or McKinney, I think. We'll have to see if either name fits her. Don't want to give her a name she won't grow into."

Fraser nodded seriously. "It would not be to our advantage to give the pup an ill-fitting name."

Ray tried to hid his grin at Fraser's words. "You're such a freak," he said, pulling Fraser close for a soft, sweet kiss. "Ill-fitting name, indeed." He rubbed his face against the flannel of Fraser's robe. “Don't think I'm not still mad at you, though.”

"Of course not, Ray." Fraser pulled Ray close again, arms loose around his shoulders. "”Please don't think that I'm not going to have to file charges against you for public drunkenness and disturbing the peace, at the very least. You'll probably have to pay a fine and do some community service.”

“S'okay. It was my fault.”

“Sleep well, Ray."

Ray mumbled something in reply, and was snoring a moment later.

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> Some links about the Famous Five:
> 
> http://famouscanadianwomen.com/stamps/Stamps%20introduction%20page.htm  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Electoral_firsts_in_Canada#Women  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Famous_Five_%28Canada%29


End file.
